Coping Mechanisms
by jlybelly
Summary: His mind jolts him back to reality—the reality that's right in front of him. He's been swallowed up by his memories. There are sirens flashing and blaring, people walking around and talking about how the once-great Sherlock Holmes is... How many hours has it been? It's dark now. It wasn't dark before. Post-Reichenbach from John's perspective. No ships as of yet.
1. The Fall

A/N: This started off as a simple little bout of inspiration and has grown into much more than that. I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. The writing, however, I do own. This first chapter is more of an introduction, as it more or less just recounts the fall and the immediate happenings thereafter. Chapter 1 is heavily inspired by this image (25).(media).(tumblr).(c)(o)(m)/tumblr_lxtm23SkYW1qzcw37o1_ (please remove parentheses to see) by weavile over at tumblr, for which I take no credit.

* * *

He can pinpoint the moment his life had begun to spiral. It had been such an unremarkable day for John Watson until that point.

The sun had been shining, not particularly brightly, but it also wasn't a rainy day or even cloudy day by any means. He'd fallen asleep in St. Bart's hospital (relatively normal for Sherlock's flatmate), and he hadn't dreamed the night before, not even once. Completely average, completely mundane, completely unremarkable. And yet John can remember it all in painfully clear detail. A coat that isn't his is draped over his shoulders, and blood that isn't his is draped over the concrete. He remembers it all.

He remembers waking up to his phone ringing. A voice telling him Mrs. Hudson had been shot—that's when it happened. That's the point everything fell apart. He remembers everything that was said between him and Sherlock—the words "You _machine_" echo through his mind like some sort of demented chant. The anxious cab ride back to Baker St, the way his leg was bouncing, the number of times he'd asked the cabbie, "Can we hurry up?" (which happened to be twelve). It's all there. His mind runs into 221 Baker St after himself, sees the way Mrs. Hudson is standing—perfectly normal. Perfectly alive. Altogether very perfect. He'd scared her, gave her a fright when he'd ran in, but that was the worst she'd had for some time. She was by no means shot. John remembers—experiences, even now—the confusion of why he'd gotten that call and the sudden realization when Mrs. Hudson mentioned Sherlock in passing. As quickly as he'd gone into the flat, he remembers leaving the flat. The almost-as-anxious cab ride back again to St. Bart's. The thirteen times he'd asked the cabbie, "Can we hurry up?"

Sherlock's phone call as the cab comes to a stop nearly a block away, how eerily perfectly timed it was. It makes sense now, in hindsight, that Sherlock watched the cab pull up. The exact tone in his voice, how it only took a few words before he was begging John to follow his instructions.

The way his voice broke under the weight of the word, "Please."

"Okay, there." He remembers stopping dead in his tracks. "Turn around-" his shoulder leads and he turns to see "-I'm on the rooftop." His heart is stopped for a moment, time slows down, as John realizes just what this suggests.

Sherlock Holmes, accused of being a fraud and a criminal, is standing on the edge of the roof of St. Bart's hospital.

About to jump.

And John is his last phone call.

"Oh, God," he mutters before Sherlock explains that he can't come down, so they'll just have to do "it" like this. Whatever "it" is.

"What's going on?" he asks, and it echos. He hears it twice, but the second time it's not him asking.

His mind jolts him back to reality—the reality that's right in front of him. He's been swallowed up by his memories. There are sirens flashing and blaring, people walking around and talking about how the once-great Sherlock Holmes is...

How many hours has it been? It's dark now. It wasn't dark before.

John doesn't even know how lost he looks as he glances around the scene, his eyes widened somewhat, eyebrows turned up in the middle, tears still in his eyes or otherwise caked to his cheeks.

A uniformed man walks up to him and holds his hand out expectantly before saying something. It doesn't immediately process in John's mind, so the man thrusts his hand out more firmly and says something about a... a boat? No. A throat? Certainly not. A loat? … Is that even a word?

"Let him have the coat, officer," a familiar voice instructs the uniformed man. Oh. He was asking for Sherlock's coat.

The man goes to argue, "But, Detective Lestrade it's evid-"

"He's been through enough," Lestrade explains, watching John carefully. John turns to try to thank him, but the Detective-Inspector just offers a small, evidently-forced smile and goes back to his work, leaving John only to his memories.

"An apology."

What for?  
"It's all true."

But it's not. It can't be. John knows this. He knows it's not true. Knows that the press is lying—that Moriarty was lying—that Richard Brook is _not __**real**_. He remembers his conversation with Mycroft—that Mycroft knowingly told Moriarty all these things. Mycroft knows he's real. He's real. Moriarty is real. He is. He is. He _is_.

"What?" he asks.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock looks away—glancing behind him—why? The thought is gone as soon as it's there.

"Why are you saying this?" he asks the first thought on his tongue, leaving the rest as of yet unspoken. Why is he lying like this? Why does he feel the need?

Who's put him up to this?

What are they threatening?

Is it really worth it?

"I'm a fake." God, the way he says it. It hurts even John for Sherlock to say this—true or not. And it's not.

"Sherlock!" He wants to tell him to stop. To step back off the edge. To think, for God's sake, think!

"The newspapers were right all along." He thinks he can hear tears in Sherlock's voice. Tears. Actual tears. "I want you to tell Lestrade." No. "I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson-" No. "-and Molly." Certainly not. "In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you-" He can't be asking this of him. He just can't. "-that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." He's had enough now, and what he's been wanting to voice finally comes.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met," he stumbles over his words, emphasizing, "you knew all about my sister, right?" Any other day it would seem silly that he's trying to convince Sherlock Holmes of his own brilliance.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." The response is out before John even realizes he's said it, but it's true. It's there. If anybody could be that clever, it's him. John knows this, has faith in it.

And it makes Sherlock laugh—he laughs. It's the most relieving sound John can imagine in that moment. It's hope. A tiny breath of hope for John that maybe Sherlock won't jump. Maybe he won't—no. He isn't going to. Sherlock is going to be fine, and John isn't going to lose his best friend. He laughed. John's jaw sets with determination.

But the hope doesn't last.

"I researched you." No. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could-" No. "to impress you." No. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

But there were times that John knows all too well, times that Sherlock made deductions that had nothing to do with cases, deductions that had no research. His schoolmate who'd gone around the world twice in one month—Sherlock couldn't have known about that. Anderson and Donovan, that first night 18 months ago—Sherlock couldn't have known about that. The driver from the boomerang incident—that had nothing to do with Moriarty.

"No," he says aloud. "All right, stop it now." He sounds like a child—he feels helpless like a child. If he can't convince Sherlock to walk away of his own accord, he'll just have to go up there and pull him down. So he starts toward the hospital.

"No," Sherlock immediately says, "stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

Fearful that his friend might do something John will regret, he steps back and puts a hand up in a signal of surrender. "All right," he concedes.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." He's asking John to... watch him? Something so simple?"Please, will you do this for me?" His voice cracks again, and it is what concerns John the most.

"Do what?"

"This phone call, it's, uhm... It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

No. No, this... This isn't happening.

John snaps back to reality—to the present. The street is even darker than it was the last time he woke from his reverie, and it takes him a moment before he realizes it's because everyone else has gone, and there's no police lights or cars. He's left there, all alone, only Sherlock's coat giving him any comfort, and it feels so wrong to be wearing the detective's coat. But he doesn't take it off. He can't. It's all he has left except for the blood on the pavement, and John will never be capable of seeing that—not ever—so he just pulls the coat tighter around him, wishing that he was not the one wearing the coat. It's too long for him, too broad in the shoulders. He doesn't have the cheekbones to pull it off. It's too dark, too bright and brilliant and...

He shudders as his phone rings in his pocket—he hasn't received a call or a text at all since the jump.

"You coming home tonight, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks weakly on the other end of the phone. John stays silent. "You really ought to come home. I-I can make you some tea. Biscuits." His silence continues. "Please, dear. Come on home."

"Later," he says, and his voice is thick, and it cracks, so he clears his throat and licks his parched lips. "I promise."

"Okay... You know, I can't bear to lose both of you..." He wants to laugh at how sweet he is, but he just nods. "It's hard... Being alone in times like this."

And still it takes him a thought or two before he understands she can't hear him nod. "Okay, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be fine. Take care." And he hangs up before she can say anything else.

He has to pull the phone away from his ear. He wants to be able to talk to Sherlock face to face, for Sherlock to see every part of his expression. He can't deal with this. This is not how John handles conflict. But, no, he can't lose Sherlock. Not now. Not like this. "Leave a note when?" he says into the phone, forcing it back against his ear.

"Goodbye, John."

Those are his last words. That's the last time John Watson hears the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

He begs, "No, don't." He remembers watching helplessly as Sherlock tossed the phone aside, eliminating John's only communication with the man. He couldn't hear himself, but he knew he was screaming, "Sherlock!" He had to try. He had to at least try.

He wished he'd tried harder.

Sherlock stepped off the edge of Saint Bart's, and the next thing John said was in a whisper; "Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John," repeats in the doctor's mind, and he forces himself to blink back to the present.

There's a man standing there, with his hands folded behind his back.

John looks over at the form slowly, black dress shoes lead to long, black trousers secured with a black leather belt.

"Goodbye, John," echoes in his mind.

The black trousers lead to a white dress shirt that frankly should be re-tailored, outlined by a black jacket.

"Goodbye, John."

The white dress shirt lands just below an unmistakeable face, cheekbones, hair, with eyes focused on the doctor.

"Goodbye, John."

To cover the entire form is a long, black coat, with the collar popped.

"_Hello, John."_


	2. Telling the Others

A/N: This started off as a simple little bout of inspiration and has grown into much more than that. I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. The writing, however, I do own.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

The man smirks.

"B-but how?"

"_Well, for starters I'm not real,"_ he explains then adds, with a roll of his eyes, _"Obviously."_ As if completing the explanation, he tugs on his coat collar. John glances down to his left and notices the familiar and identical red-stitched button-hole.

"Oh," John says sadly, his shoulders falling.

"_Oh indeed,"_ Sherlock says, nodding slightly and glancing around. _"This is not going to be easy, John. That's probably why I'm here. Your psyche has created me to help you deal with the actual Sherlock's absence. You're having delusions, John."_ He pauses. _"How's your leg?"_

John blinks a few times—that's a repercussion he hadn't thought of. Of course Sherlock would think of it. "It hurts," he admits with a bit of shame.

"_Course it does. I was the reason it didn't. Can you get up? I'd offer to help, but... Well. I'm not physically present."_

John nods, and he inhales a shuddering breath before trying to force himself up with a grunt. It takes a lot of strength without his cane—more effort by far than it did before Sherlock. "God," he mutters, collapsing back to the ground.

"_Come along, John. You can manage this much." _Can he? John isn't quite so sure. He just shakes his head. _"John, you must. Mrs. Hudson is expecting you."_

"Yes, well, she's already lost-..." He stops and clears his throat. "I'm not that important."

"_Don't do that to her." _Sherlock's voice is soft but warning, and John thinks twice about just staying on the stoop he's resting against. He's just a delusion—a visual manifestation of John's basic understanding of Sherlock Holmes, imbued with John's conscious and limited knowledge, so John understands that, in a sense, he is merely voicing what John knows Sherlock would want. Sherlock didn't kill himself with the hopes that his best friend would follow, and John knows this.

So he uses all the strength he can muster, despite not having eaten in God only knows how many hours, and probably being damned close to dehydrated, and he eventually is able to stand. With a decided limp, he walks to the nearest major street and finds a cab and takes it back to Baker St. It's all the money he has left in his pocket to pay the fare before getting out and limping into his flat.

Sherlock follows him all the while, silent, obviously impatient, always a few steps ahead of John.

Mrs. Hudson is still up when John walks in, despite it being after 3 in the morning. "I was worried sick about you!" she exclaims as she walks in from her kitchen, immediately wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John in a way of saying, "I told you so," and John almost answers, but the delusion speaks up, _"I wouldn't if I were you. You can see and hear me, but she can't. You'll look insane. Yes, yes, I know you _are_ insane, but Mrs. Hudson needn't know that."_

John sighs, which apparently is a reasonable reaction to everything in Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "Are you doing all right?" she asks. "Would you like that cuppa I mentioned earlier? I can just put the kettle on."

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson that's quite alright."

And suddenly the idea of having tea at all is gone from Mrs. Hudson's mind, and she's rattling about Sherlock. "I just don't understand why he'd do it." John's jaw stiffens slightly.

"Neither do I."

"_Lie to her.-Oh, don't _'What' _me. Lie to her-" _His voice is suddenly mocking _"-But how can you read my thoughts, Sherlock? I'm. Not. Real. I'm in your head—I know what you're going to say before you say it. Lie to her. I told you to, didn't I?"_ The delusion recites the exact words with painful detail and accuracy, down to the very tone Sherlock had been using, _"I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." _He pauses, the pleading gone from his voice, replaced with command. _"Now follow your orders, soldier."_

"The newspapers were true," John bursts, and Mrs. Hudson stares with wide eyes. "The newspapers were true," he repeats, calmer. "Ah, apparently... Sherlock was on the phone with me just before he-" He can feel his voice about to crack, so he clears his throat and swallows hard. But it doesn't help. "Just before he-" he squeaks and takes a moment to compose himself before continuing. "And, he said that the newspapers were true. He... He wanted me to tell you. As a means, I think, of explanation."

Mrs. Hudson is shaking her head. John can see she doesn't want to believe it, so he steps forward and wraps his arms around her, trying to comfort her.

The next day, he forces himself out of bed and takes his cane, leaving his SIG in the drawer in the table by his bed. He doesn't accept the tea or biscuits Mrs. Hudson offers him as he shuts his eyes to walk through 221B Baker St. It's a hard sight to see without Sherlock.

"_You're going to kill yourself doing that," _the delusion warns. _"Yes, I'm still here. I imagine I will be for some time."_

Last night the delusion had more or less disappeared shortly before John made himself fall asleep, which happened to be around 5 in the morning. It's now 8, and John is running on minimal sleep and almost a day without food. But he's not hungry, and despite how tired he is, he can't sleep.

"_Just open your eyes so you don't fall over that stack of magazines there."_

He does, surprised to see that there is, in fact, a stack of magazines just before him that he would have invariably tripped over had it not been for that warning.

"_Your subconscious remembered they were there, and as I am a manifestation of your subconscious, I was able to warn you. Congratulations on using a part of your brain most humans are incapable of reaching—shame it cost you your best friend in order to do so. Worth it?" _No. _"Doubly shameful, then."_

He checks his pockets, glad to find he has money still, and goes downstairs to hail a cab to take him to New Scotland Yard.

"Can we talk?" John asks as he knocks on the open door of Lestrade's office. The detective-inspector takes a moment to think about it—John knows he's busy, but he can read the pity in the man's eyes. "It's about Sherlock," he explains, and Lestrade nods, waving him in. "He, ah, was on the phone with me, just before."

This grabs Lestrade's interest, and he leans forward in the chair. "Evidence?" he asks.

"N-no, not really. Well, yes, I suppose. It's a bit hard to-"

"Tell me what he said."

"The newspapers were right," John says. "He just wanted me to tell you the newspapers were right."

John doesn't tell Lestrade about his conversation with Mycroft or the fact that he can see a delusion of a very pleased Sherlock in the corner, but he tells him almost everything else.

He catches sight of Lestrade telling Donovan and Anderson as he's leaving, and can see the triumph in their faces. The careless triumph.

Fraud or not, Sherlock was still John's best friend. They could stand to be a little less cruel.

His next and last stop is Molly Hooper who works at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

He can't visit her at work. It would be impossible for him to survive anywhere near that building, so he texts her and asks if she's home and if he can visit her for a few minutes. He's already in the cab to her flat when she answers that he can and that she has the day off for mourning.

It isn't long until he's there, sitting on a fur-coated couch inside her apartment, looking around at the pastel-themed interior with Toby, her cat, pawing at his sleeve. Sherlock is walking around the apartment. _"John, come here, I can't see anything you don't."_ John doesn't answer out loud, but after a moment Sherlock has understood that John indeed will not be joining him to examine her collection of porcelain cat mugs. The delusion sighs and goes to stand behind John.

Molly shows up a few minutes later with a tray of tea and biscuits. "Sorry about the mess," she apologizes in a quiet voice. Is this messy to her? "I've just been working a lot..."

John nods.

"How are you?" she asks, trying to be polite, but John just looks at her, pained, as if she should know the answer to that, and she presses her lips together, her eyes going to his cane. "Right. … Sorry."

He has no idea how to introduce the topic, so he decides to jump straight in. "Sherlock was on the phone with me... Just before." This perks Molly's interest. "And he wanted me to tell you that the newspapers were right." Molly seems unaffected. "But I'm not going to tell you that."

The delusion has already walked around into John's line of sight, and he's staring at the doctor like he's mad. (Well, he is mad, but for a completely different reason.) _"What do you think you're doing?"_

"I spoke to Mycroft the night before, a-and when he abducted Moriarty after the trial, the only way Mycroft could get him to talk was by telling him all about Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't a fraud."

"_John, you have to stop. I wanted you to lie to her for a reason. Stop."_

"But he wanted us to believe he was when he... when he..."

"_John, really. You've had your fun. Stop now."_

"To make it softer, maybe, I don't know."

"_John, stop it."_

"But why did he have to, then?" He can't say that Sherlock's dead. He just can't bring himself to say it.

The delusion disappears suddenly, and John's eyes jump to where it had been standing, Molly's eyes following. He clears his throat. "Sorry, thought I saw something."

"It's fine. Y-you were saying?" she asks.

"Molly, he wasn't a fraud. I know it—you know it. Mycroft knows it. He wasn't a fraud. So why did he..." He has trouble with accepting the word "... Why did he... have to do that?"

"W-well, I suppose I wouldn't really know," Molly says, not saying anything in particular about the events.

John's only response is a sigh. He'd been hoping, fruitlessly it seems, that she would know something, that she might have some insight. Her phone vibrates, and she checks it, a slightly distressed expression passes her face, and she types up a quick response before pocketing it again. "Everything all right?" John asks, and she nods.

"Y-yeah. Everything's fine."

John's turn to nod. "Ah, I think I'm going to head back to Baker Street. Sorry for disturbing you."

"N-no, it's okay. You should come by for tea more often." Her phone vibrates in her pocket again, and she cringes slightly, but doesn't check it or answer it. "Next week, maybe?"

"Ah... Yeah. That sounds good."

John leaves the apartment, leaning heavily on his cane as he stands outside, searching for a cab.

"_I hope you're pleased."_ He is. To an extent. He needed to tell someone what he knew, and Molly was the least likely to go blabbing to someone or to tell him he's crazy. _"You are crazy." _Different crazy. _"All insanities are the same when boiled down." _You don't really think that. _"Yes I do, and I do because you do. John, Sherlock Holmes is dead. That is why I am here"_

"I never said he wasn't," he argues aloud, garnering strange looks from passersby.

"_No, but you can't say he is, and you hope that he isn't. John, for your sake, stop what you're doing. I can't help you with this." _

"I don't need your help." More strange looks.

The delusion growls. _"Then you won't have it."_ And once more, he's disappeared, leaving John to a lonely cab ride back to Baker Street, an agonizing climb up the stairs, and a trip over the magazines as he closes his eyes through the sitting room.

It's three in the afternoon now.

"Would you like something to eat, dear?" Mrs. Hudson, who is apparently now acting-housekeeper of 221B Baker Street, asks.

"No, thank you," John says, even though he can feel his stomach growling. He's hungry, but the thought of eating is simply unappealing to him.

* * *

Chapter 3 Preview:

Title: Eating

Snippet:

Night falls over Baker Street, and John hasn't left his room in almost seven hours—since he got back to the flat around three.

He spent a large majority of the time clutching desperately at the handle of his cane, trying to keep his breathing calm. Tripping over the magazine stack in the sitting room forced John to open his eyes. He spent a few minutes just looking around, taking in the sight of 221B Baker Street without Sherlock.


	3. Eating

A/N: Ah, so, this chapter fell a little shorter than the others, but I really liked where it ended, so I'm just gonna leave it. As ever, I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, but I do own the writing, so please don't go taking that.

* * *

Night falls over Baker Street, and John hasn't left his room in almost seven hours—since he got back to the flat around three.

He spent a large majority of the time clutching desperately at the handle of his cane, trying to keep his breathing calm. Tripping over the magazine stack in the sitting room forced John to open his eyes. He spent a few minutes just looking around, taking in the sight of 221B Baker Street without Sherlock. The mess was still about—John doesn't have the heart to clean any of it up or throw anything out. Sherlock's chair is exactly as he'd left it, and John stared at it, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Its utter emptiness made a pain tear at his chest.

Since then, John sat on his bed, his eyes occasionally trailing over to the bedside table, in which his SIG rests.

"_Don't."_

He tore his eyes away, until inevitably they wandered back.

"_Don't."_

Again, he tore his eyes away, and the process repeated a few times before John forced himself up and limped over to the other side of the bed.

Sherlock has thoroughly explored John's room and quickly grown bored. Once he knows John won't be going for his gun, he settles for throwing a ball that John vaguely recognizes but doesn't know the origins of at a wall and letting it bounce back to him.

"_I'm a _delusion_, John," _Sherlock sighs. _"The ball didn't have to come _from _anywhere."_

John sighs, accepting this fact. "Could we—could we talk about that?"

"_You mean could _you_ talk about it, and I simply voice the opinions you weren't consciously aware you had?" _His voice is so condescending, so very Sherlock. _"Yes! By all means, let's."_

Another sigh before Mrs. Hudson forcibly bustles into John's room, a full tray of soup and toast and tea and juice in her hands.

"Were you chatting with someone on the phone, dear?" she asks. Then, without waiting for an answer, she says, "You haven't eaten, so I thought maybe you'd like some soup."

It never occurred to John before how motherly Mrs. Hudson could be.

"How's Molly doing? I know how much she liked-" she seemed to stumble over her thoughts, the tray shaking slightly in her hands for a moment "Ah... him."

The delusion stops throwing the ball at the wall, catching it easily in one hand, and stares at Mrs. Hudson.

"_Ohh, she can't say my name... That... I wasn't expecting her to care so much."_ John had.

"She seems to be doing surprisingly well, actually," John answers. "It's worrisome."

"Yes, well, that's sort of understandable... _He_ wasn't very nice to her."

John spends a silent moment considering asking Mrs. Hudson to just say Sherlock, but the delusion interjects, _"Don't be inconsiderate—give her a few days' mourning period."_ Definitely more John than Sherlock in that comment. _"Of course. I _am_ a manifestation of _your_ subconscious, John. And don't tell me to stop. I won't"_

"I suppose," John concedes, but it still doesn't make sense that Molly would be so unaffected by Sherlock's suicide.

"_Don't dwell on it."_

"Well, you let me know when you're done with that soup," Mrs. Hudson instructs before leaving, shutting the door behind her as she goes.

"_You have questions," _Sherlock says, his voice an echo from one of John's memories.

"Why-"

"_Aren't I bloody like the last time you remember seeing me?"_

"Do you really have to do that?"  
Sherlock ignores the question. _"You're seeing me as you would like to remember me, John."_

John nods in understanding.

"_Am I the same man you knew? Obviously not. As a manifestation of your subconscious, I cannot do any more than you can. I cannot see anything you cannot. I may _notice_ more because your conscious is only processed information and all the rest is _me_, but I am no smarter than you, and I can think no better than you. Speaking of which, please do try to come up with a few more words than delusion and manifestation."_

"That makes very little sense..."

"_Yes, well, you're having delusions to cope with the death of your best friend whom you knew for only a year and a half, John. Do you expect everything to make sense?"_

"No, I suppose not. But Sherlock's... His..."  
_"His death will never make sense to you. Do _not_ dwell on it."_

"It's too late for that," John argues. He just wants to think it through, to try to make sense of it all. Something's not right.

"_Soup, John. You need to eat."_

"You're one to talk."

"_I _am_ you, John."_

"But you're really not."

"_Soup."_

Begrudgingly, John picks up the spoon and eats the soup. It's bland at first, and he debates stopping altogether, but Sherlock urges him on with a growl of, _"Eat," _and John feels like he doesn't have a choice. The more he eats, in fact, the more he realizes exactly how _hungry_ he is. Soon the soup is gone, then the tea, the juice, and lastly the toast.

Sherlock smirks smugly.

It's late by then, and John, running on only three hours of sleep, rests his head on his pillow. The tray of dirty dishes still sits on the bed beside him. He takes a deep breath in.

"_Good night, Doctor."_

The delusion disappears, and as John exhales, he sleeps.

He wakes up close to noon, to the sound of Mrs. Hudson rattling away with the tray from the previous night.

"Late night, dear?" she asks when John finally makes his way out to the main room.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," he says.

"Have you got anything planned for today?"

"_Oh, yes, John. Your plans for betraying your best friend's dying wish went _so well_ yesterday."_

While Mrs. Hudson's back is turned, John shoots his delusion a glare.

"Not today, no."

"You might think about going out."

"Yeah," he says, staring at the delusion and remembering Molly's offer of having tea more often. "I think I might."

Mrs. Hudson continues to chat with him, small talk, never mentioning Sherlock by name, but never ignoring the presence he once shared in their lives. John never really looks around the flat, especially never at the leather chair whose presence is suddenly imposing and constricting. He can't sit in his own chair, not with the way it so perfectly faces Sherlock's. Mrs. Hudson is talking about how she threw out a bag of toenails earlier when John pulls out his phone and writes up a text. "Molly, can I take you up on that offer of tea tonight? -JW"

He sends the text, and Sherlock is immediately in his face.

"_You're going to tell her about me. Is this what death and loss do to normal people?Make them _complete_ idiots?"_

"I'm off at 8. Be by round then? -Molly" is the girl's response.

"Sure. -JW"

"_Does she really work so late? … Oh, _God_, I'm noticing her like _you do_!"_

He forces himself not to laugh and thinks to kill the following eight hours by looking for a job and watching telly.

Eventually, the time passes. Four job applications and two Connie Prince reruns later, it's time for John to leave.

Molly answers her door promptly, and John doesn't wait for her to invite him in before saying, "I still see Sherlock."

Molly's eyes open wide, frightful.

"He's right behind me," John continues, pointing over his shoulder. Molly glances before receiving a text. John is just able to make out the letters "D" and "S" before she's pocketed it again, looking more relieved.

"John," she says, "you need to seek psychiatric help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I, ah, really must tend to something that is very, very unexpected. G'night!"  
And the door is closed.

He didn't want to resort to this, but he does still have Dr. Thompson's phone number.

"_That eager to get rid of me, John?"_

John doesn't answer.

"_I saved your life last night, John."_

John still doesn't answer.

* * *

Chapter 4 Preview:

Title: Ella Thompson

Snippet:

"_This... Does it help you? Really?"_

John doesn't answer.

"_It didn't help before. I did. What makes you think it's going to help this time?"_

"Because _something_ has to help, and you aren't here this time."

Sherlock sits forward in the chair suddenly, hands gripping the armrests tightly.

"_But I am, John. I'm right _here_. Stop trying to get rid of me. Tell Ella this was a mistake and leave. Don't be stupid."_


	4. Ella Thompson

John is jittery and unhappy as he sits in the familiar chair, his chin resting on his fist. His elbow rests on the arm of the chair. Eyes watch the rain drain down the window. He glances at his phone to check the time—two minutes to three.

"_She isn't going to be late, John."_

"I can still worry."

Sherlock scoffs before sitting in the chair opposite John.

"_This... Does it help you? Really?"_

John doesn't answer.

"_It didn't help before. I did. What makes you think it's going to help this time?"_

"Because _something_ has to help, and you aren't here this time."

Sherlock sits forward in the chair suddenly, hands gripping the armrests tightly.

"_But I am, John. I'm right _here_. Stop trying to get rid of me. Tell Ella this was a mistake and leave. Don't be stupid."_

"You aren't real-"

"_Oh, what does that matter?"_ Sherlock asks, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers, pressing them against his lips. _"If I help, does it matter if I'm real or a delusion? Really?"_

"A bit, yes."

He hears the door open and glances over to see Dr. Ella Thompson walking in, rifling through a file. "Hello, John," she says, smiling at him shortly. Sherlock gets up from her chair and walks around to stand beside his friend, still very clearly in his line of sight, and still very clearly upset with the situation. "How are you?"

Do people really have to ask that? Isn't it a bit obvious? Society expects them to, but everyone should know how Dr. John H. Watson is doing just a week after his friend committed suicide.

"In your own words, John, how are you?" she repeats the question as she sits in her chair.

John frowns. She means it as a psychological exercise. "Not..." He takes a deep breath before sighing, "well. Not well at all, actually."

Ella writes something down, and John realizes he doesn't care to even try reading what she wrote, and besides before too long she's set it aside and out of sight anyway. "Why are you here, John?" she asks. He just stares, and her voice is so calm. Something about it is almost callous. "Why today?"

John is silent, and he glances at the delusion, but even he is silent. Sherlock begins to fade, to disappear, and John looks down at his hand. A small pause follows, and when he speaks he sounds like a child. "Do you want to hear me say it?"

"18 months since our last appointment," Ella says, continuing.

"Do you read the papers?" John asks, almost a bit annoyed that she's asking him to do this.

"Sometimes."

Sometimes is enough. "And you watch telly." He pauses again. "You know why I'm here."

He has to pause. He's having trouble even thinking of it. "I'm here because..." His voice fails him, and he finds it hard to breathe, so he tries to compose himself. He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to deal with this. He's not here about Sherlock's death, not immediately. He's here because of his delusions.

"What happened, John?" Ella presses, sitting forward in her chair.

He forces his eyes open, forces himself to look at Ella, clears his throat. "Sher-" God, no, he can't. Not now. He clears his throat again, anything that might make this easier.

"You need to get it out."

"My best friend," his voice is barely a whisper, "Sherlock Holmes," he can't even hear himself as he's speaking, if he's even speaking, "is dead." He can feel himself breaking down, can feel the tears in his eyes, and he tries to hold them back by screwing his eyes shut, but it doesn't help. His breath comes shallow and painful, and he hears a sob then a choke. God, he's crying. Ella watches quietly.

"It's okay, John," she says, her voice that same monotone. "It's okay to cry." Just like a psychologist.

The breath itself shudders as he breathes in, trying to calm himself, trying not to cry.

Ella continues to watch quietly as John composes himself. "The stuff that you wanted to say to him, but didn't say it," she begins.

"Yeah," he says, understanding, but he's shaking his head.

"Say it now," she commands.

He silently mouths the word, "No," shaking his head again. He can't—she can't ask that of him. Not now. Not so soon after. "I'm sorry. I can't." It's too much.

"Okay," she concedes. "That's okay. Why don't you tell me how your day-to-day life has changed?"

He swallows hard, looking out the window again. "Ah... I wake up. I try not to look at the sitting room. I don't eat either because I have no appetite or I forget. I run errands. I go back to my room. And at night I sleep or at the very least attempt to." He takes a pause. Is it worth having her know? It was easy to tell Molly, but Ella... "And all the while... I... see... him."

Ella reaches for her file to write this down. "You see him, John? What does he look like?"

He tries to find the right word for it. The delusion is always immaculate, his shirt freshly pressed, not a speck of lint anywhere. Not a curl out of place. Everything is exactly as Sherlock would look on his best day. "... Pristine."

They talk about his delusions for awhile, discuss what "Sherlock" says, how he acts, what he knows, what he can and cannot do. At the end of it all, she produces a prescription for John, and John leaves.

"_I do hope you're not planning on filling that."_

He doesn't intend to answer until they're out on the busy street, where fewer people will note a man talking to himself, but Sherlock continues anyway, knowing John's thoughts.

"_You're going to fill it right now."_

He's quiet, they're both quiet, as John walks to the pharmacy. They're silent as John sits and waits for the medication, until Sherlock interjects, _"Oh, at least sell it. You don't need this. It's foolish for you to take this."_

John ignores him, taking the medication and walking back out to the street."Sherlock, I'm not selling my antipsychotics because you don't want me to be _sane_ again." People are staring, but they always do, and John is looking for a cab. "I don't want this."

He sees one and steps out to hail it, his arm out and breath held for the oncoming shout, but his breath is caught and his arm falls at Sherlock's next words.

"_Then why haven't you taken one yet?"_


End file.
